A Pot Chrysanthemum

i.m. Christina Pretzlik

You cupped your hands to contain
the remnants of light in their hollow.
 
Freed from its source night travels
vast distances in ultra-sound,
 
as a crested wood-nymph might,
hovering only to plunge its bill
 
deep between the puckered lips
of some far-red tropic flower,
 
always -- like Ariel -- returning
to perch by your side. Always,
 
that is, until today you'd find
your heavy-breathing Caliban
 
clumsy with pot chrysanthemum
beneath his dripping Regenschirm.
 
He chose this sturdy northern bloom
for its supposed longevity
 
and the shades of bronze that match
your fine auburn helmet
of now deep-buried hair.